A Match Made for Murder

by Iona Whishaw

  “I so nearly did tell you, but at the time I worried that you would be in the position of knowing and having to lie to Galloway. I don’t think you are all that comfortable with lying.”

  “What worries me is that you are,” Darling said, taking her hand and looking at it despondently. He thought about her wartime career in intelligence. Surely a good deal of lying would have been required.

  But Lane took both his hands and looked at him earnestly. “I am not. I have never lied to you about anything. And I never will. I thought you knew that.” She dropped his hands and looked away toward the children who had come out of the pool and were being rubbed down, shivering and laughing. She was immediately sorry she’d said it. It was too big, and it wasn’t fair because while she hadn’t lied, she’d kept him out. “I’m sorry. That was unfair. I did keep you out of it. I can see that it’s almost a form of lying.”

  “That makes two of us. I’m sorry as well. I don’t imagine for a minute that you’d be comfortable lying, but I will admit, I don’t like being . . . maybe not trusted is a better way to look at it. I can even confess that in looking back on my conversation with Galloway, I am glad I didn’t know ahead of time. It would have made for an awful awkwardness. I think what I’m saying is that I do want to know before you go haring off on rescue missions, should this become a fixture of our marriage, and I want you to trust me to handle the outcomes.”

  “I do love you,” she said, leaning in to kiss him gently. “Shall we go riding this afternoon? I’d love to see the city from up high again. It’s convincing me that we might even get a couple of horses when we get home. What do you think?”

  “Well, yes to the ride this afternoon, certainly. I just have to show Miss Ruiz this photo. And you too for that matter. Does this look like the man we saw Meg Holden talking to on the street? I didn’t get a good enough look at his face. I think I was concentrating more on his grabbing her arm like that.”

  Lane took the photo he’d pulled out of the manila envelope. “We were almost half a block away by the time I tumbled to the realization it was Meg Holden. Certainly the shape of the head looks right, but I don’t think I could swear to it in court. But Chela saw him very close up, so she’ll know for sure. Who is he?”

  “He’s a bit of a local gangster, and if Mrs. Holden is very chummy with him, I suspect that means something.”

  Galloway sat on the patio of his home, nursing his fourth scotch and waiting for Fernanda to cook his dinner. She’d looked disapprovingly at him when he’d ordered her to just bring the bottle and set it down on the table beside him, but then, she looked disapprovingly at him all the time. He should dismiss her. He looked at his watch. It was nearly eight and starting to get cold. She’d serve dinner and then go home. He could feel a wave of anxiety about being alone and pushed it aside. The Griffin situation had seemed in the bag. What was the meaning of Darling’s so-called information? It would, he was absolutely sure, come to nothing.

  Galloway turned to the problem of his wife. He’d made up the name “Dahlia” when he was talking to Darling, but there must be a Dahlia of sorts somewhere who knew where she was—or was even hiding her. He started again to run through the people they knew at the club when Fernanda called.

  “Señor jefe. It is on the table.”

  Galloway got up, surprised at how light-headed he felt. He said nothing to the maid but shook his hand at her in a shooing motion when she asked if there was anything else. He listened until he heard the back door close, and only when he was sure she had left, did he turn to his dinner.

  Priscilla would be back. He even felt half convinced that he’d been right when he told Darling that she was just waiting till she looked more like her old self. She couldn’t survive a second on her own, he knew that. She had no money for starters, and there wasn’t a single woman at the club who would risk her husband’s career by sheltering the wife of the assistant chief of police.

  He was the assistant chief of police, dammit. He’d use good old police procedures to track her down. If it did turn out to be one of the women at the club, well, he’d see what ought to be done about that.

  Chapter Twenty

  Terrell had been right. Ames was not the least bit happy about the information he’d brought from the dress shops. Both sales ladies had remembered the woman who’d made the purchases in particular because of the curly blond hair. The second shopkeeper had made a point of how yellow it was.

  “Tina Van Eyck,” Ames said miserably after a very long moment.

  Terrell, however, had been quite convinced of her candour after his interview by the lake. “We don’t know that, though, do we? There must be scores of pretty blondes in their late twenties in town.”

  “Probably none who had a relationship with him when they were teenagers. He was never planning to take Ada Finch anywhere. He was going off with Tina. She’s lied to us right from the start.”

  Terrell was silent and then spoke. “I’m not sure you can call being raped a relationship. Anyway, why would he tell Ada Finch he was going to take her away somewhere if he’d been planning to run off with Miss Van Eyck?”

  Ames winced. “I suppose. But we’ve only got Tina’s word for what he did to her when she was sixteen. There’s no trace of her supposed report to the police. There’s nothing for it; we’re going to have to go out there. Maybe even bring her back for questioning. We’re going to have to learn a good deal more about that whole business.” No fear or favour, he thought, feeling completely unsettled.

  “If we’re going out anyway,” Terrell said, “let’s stop at the cottage and find out from Mrs. Watts if Ada’s clothes were among the things she took from his locker.” He was not at all convinced by the Tina Van Eyck theory and hoped that circumstances would support him.

  The weather made Sunday morning as moody as the previous day. Heavy black clouds seemed to cap the valley, locking out the light. The lake was a menacing dark green, the wind causing the ferry to rock on the crossing. Ames looked balefully out at the trees on the other side of the road that were bending in the gale, throwing off the last of their dying leaves.

  There was little but the most necessary traffic on the road, which instead of the usual dust now cast up a fine rain of mud from the tyres of the vehicles ahead of them. The road up the hill to the Watts cottage was a series of wet craters, and Ames winced with every jostle and bump.

  Rain was coming down in earnest when the two men stood on the small porch knocking on the door. They’d been relieved to see smoke coming out of the chimney as they pulled to a stop on the overgrown grass in front of the cottage.

  “You again.” Mrs. Watts stood with the door only half open, as if she would resist asking them in, but then she stood back. “You’d better have news. Or my car.”

  The policemen stood on the doormat, hats in hand. “We won’t stay, Mrs. Watts. We just wondered if you could tell us what you found in your husband’s locker when you cleared it out.”

  She hesitated. “Nothing unexpected. His boiler suit, a towel, some toiletries, a couple of extra shirts. Why?”

  Ames could feel, rather than see, the infinitesimal glance Terrell gave him. “We know he was planning to run off with that girl. We were wondering if there might have been anything in the locker that might have something to do with this.”

  Mrs. Watts frowned and stepped back. She looked behind her and then back at them. “He must have been planning it for months. I thought it might be—” She stopped, then said, “If he was with someone, you have your murderer then, don’t you?” She glared at them.

  Had she been about to say who she thought it might be? Ames wondered. “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am. Now did you find girl’s clothing among the items from the locker?”

  Her lips moved marginally into an expression of disgust. “No, I did not. If you must know, I can’t bear to have his things around. I’ve been burning everythi
ng.”

  “And you had no notion prior to our telling you that he might have been planning to go off with anyone?” Ames asked.

  “No. Why should I? Do you think I would have let it happen if I’d known?”

  “I wonder if you’ve made sure to check the pockets in the garments?” Terrell asked suddenly.

  “To see if there was any money in them? Ha! He’d have it squirrelled away for that hussy, wouldn’t he? As it happens, we’ve been going short lately.”

  “I meant more—did you find any notes, names, destination, receipts, that sort of thing?”

  “Not a thing,” she said. “What about the car?”

  “The trouble is, we haven’t located the keys yet. I’m not sure if a locksmith can make one, but that might take some time. We could have it towed back here, but unless you have spare keys, it won’t do you much good,” Ames said.

  She sighed. “Good day, then.”

  Tina looked at the two men, her jaw working, her lips clamped, her right hand holding a spanner in a manner Ames was far from easy about.

  “If I’m to understand you, you think I went into town to two different shops and bought myself some fancy clothes to run off with a man I hated even more than I hate you right now?” She turned when she heard her father come into the bay with a cup of coffee. “It’s all right, Dad. I’ll take care of this.”

  Mr. Van Eyck paused, looking anxiously at the three people talking in the dim light next to the black Chrysler he’d been working on, and then turned away. Tina glared at the police.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Van Eyck, we have to ask. The fact is, someone fitting your description was seen buying the clothes that we found in the trunk of Watts’s car. A car in which he was subsequently found murdered.” Ames could feel the bitter overtones of his delivery and wished he could be dispassionate, but his failure to find any record of a sixteen-year-old Tina reporting an assault to the police now loomed large. She could have made that up as well.

  “So I murdered him now, too, did I? Which is it? Did I murder him or plan to run off with him?”

  Terrell cleared his throat. “We are only trying to eliminate people from our inquiry, Miss Van Eyck. Do you have a recent photo we could use? That should take care of it for now. We can show it to the dress-shop people.”

  “Unbelievable!” she said, storming off.

  The two men stood with their hands behind their backs, both wondering if she was coming back, and then she exploded back into the bay holding a small, folded identity card.

  “It’s my Auxiliary Territorial Service identification. I’d like it back, if you please.” She pointedly handed it to Terrell, who flipped it open. The picture inside was of a younger Tina, her head slightly tilted, wearing a khaki cap, her hair cut shoulder length, the curls ballooning out from under the cap behind her ears. It was a good likeness.

  “One more thing, Miss Van Eyck. Have you given any thought to who you might have talked to at the police station? Have you remembered anything since we spoke?” Terrell asked.

  Here Tina looked down. “I thought I was so close the other day. I remember he was a big man. I feel like it’s a Scottish name, but I’ve tried all ‘Mac’ anythings and nothing is sticking.”

  “Could you keep at it and give us a call if anything comes to you?” he said.

  They were about to return to the car when Ames stopped. “Miss Van Eyck, do you keep rat poison on the premises?”

  “I don’t know. You’d have to ask my dad. Dad! Have you got a minute? The sergeant here wants to know if we keep rat poison here.” She did not disguise the sarcasm in her tone.

  “I almost believe she made him up,” Ames said glumly when they were bumping up the road from the garage. “The policeman she supposedly told about the rape.” Even as he said it, he couldn’t believe her capable of that kind of lie. She was short tempered, standoffish, yes, but in his heart, he believed she was a straight shooter.

  “She provided us with her identity card with no difficulty.” Terrell hesitated. “Can I ask, sir, why you seem so, well, off kilter with this one? It seems sort of personal somehow. No offence meant.”

  Ames sighed. “None taken. If you must know, I dated her. Well, once. I took her to Darling’s wedding. If this gets out to anyone at the station, I’ll be coming for you!” He groaned inwardly at having said even this much to Terrell, new as he was and a subordinate.

  “You can certainly count on me to keep your personal confidences, sir.”

  “I had been hoping to go out with her again, if you must know, not that she seemed inclined. And now there’s this. I just don’t think we can afford to trust her.”

  “I must say, I find her credible, sir. Her anger at him seems very genuine, so I can’t imagine she would have been planning to run off with him, especially as he’d apparently promised Ada Finch he wanted to run off with her.”

  “Angry enough to kill him, though?” Ames asked. “Her father said they don’t keep poison, but he may not know if she bought any. We should have searched the premises.”

  “See, I think you might be overcompensating because you want to be impartial. If this were someone else, who’d just freely given us an identity paper to show the shopkeepers, what would your response be?”

  “All right, all right. You’ve made your point. I would assume they must be innocent. I’m not even sure I believe she did anything, either. But we do have to keep an open mind. We can’t leave any stone unturned.”

  An open mind includes not assuming someone is guilty, Terrell thought, but he didn’t say it. Sleet was turning to wet snow, and he was forced to drive slowly as the windshield wipers struggled to keep a triangular patch of window clear.

  “And Darling is lying around like a grandee in the sun, not a care in the world,” Ames muttered.

  Rex Holden was a patient man. As he saw it, he was old, he’d accumulated what he wanted in life, and he was entitled to live off his successes and enjoy what he could. He’d enjoyed his wife Meg very much. She was giddy and pretty and never, ever difficult. And she showed him affection that he’d never expected to know again after his wife of forty years had died at the end of the war. He’d warded off the dire warnings of his country club friends, ignored the raised eyebrow of the justice of the peace, and had really quite enjoyed showering gifts and money on his young wife.

  But the recent increasing spate of absences had raised some misgivings in him. He had been sitting by the pool with the newspaper and had watched his neighbours in number 26 talking. Now that was a beautiful woman, and she had been a champion when that man had been shot, he thought. So kind to Meg, so practical. He could see, could almost feel, the depth of the bond between her and her husband. At the restaurant they talked intently, laughing or serious, but always talking. Not like so many couples who sat silently looking away from each other, having long ago exhausted any conversation.

  He had to confess, he missed that close companionship. He’d had that with his first wife, Velma. And he had to admit he was beginning to mind Meg skittering about all the time, God only knew where.

  As if his thoughts took form, Meg appeared at the gate to the pool, dressed in a purple suit that hugged her generous figure attractively. She lifted her hand and twiddled her fingers in his direction.

  “Hello, sweetie! How’s the water?”

  He couldn’t see her eyes behind her dark glasses, but he felt himself relax at the sight of her. Maybe they could have a little talk now.

  “It’s grand. Want to come in?”

  “I just have to get some money for the cab. He’s waiting outside. Do you have your wallet with you?”

  Holden reached over to the side table where his room key, wallet, and an empty glass that had held lemonade were placed and extracted a couple of dollars.

  Meg hurried over and took the money. “I’ll be right back, sweetie, and come an
d lie on that deck chair. Don’t let anyone else take it!”

  Holden watched her going back to the door of the hotel, her perfect legs in the perfect silk stockings he kept her supplied with. But he did wonder. Where had she been this time?

  Lane was back in the laundry area with Chela. If the haughty front-desk people only knew the number of times she’d been here, she thought. They were sitting side by side on wooden chairs, in the shade of the oleander. The picture of Griffin was lying on Chela’s lap. Darling had come with Lane, and when Chela had indeed identified the man, he’d retreated to the room to telephone Martinez.

  “So he really is a criminal.”

  “I don’t really know for sure. Certainly this is a police picture, but I don’t know if he’s been convicted of anything in a court.” Lane said. “The one good thing is that it might be enough you have identified him; hopefully Martinez won’t ever need to talk to you.”

  Chela was about to answer when she looked up, startled. An equally startled young man had swung the back gate open and had come up the three short steps, clearly not expecting to see anyone. He stopped abruptly and looked at them, and then looked up toward the door into the building.

  Chela stood up, exerting some authority in her own realm. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “No.” He hesitated, clearly nonplussed. “I mean . . . no.” He looked anxiously again at the doorway, as if expecting someone to come through.

  “The front door to the hotel is over that way,” Chela said. She had moved to the gate and was holding it open.

  Without a word, the man turned and went back onto the street.

  “That’s him,” Chela whispered, back in her chair by Lane. “The younger one.”

  “He clearly was expecting to meet her,” Lane agreed.

  Chela shook her head. “She’s got her nice old husband, and she’s got him, and now she’s got this guy.” She held up the photo.